He's been an orphan since he was sixteen
That's when his parents kicked him out because he was so mean .
He's been living on the steps of every backdoor
What he can't get begging he will steal for

Once he was his mother's pride and joy
That was before he started drugs and there was no wonder anymore .
His skin turned hard and his heart harder still
His eyes became vacant lots lacking any will

He was living for a shot in the dark
Instead someone shot him down by the park
He died with a silly grin on his face
Don't worry there's someone who will take his place

Just another American dream disgraced
Another person slips off the face
He was dead before he hit the ground
His life ended with out a sound

And every day we say I don't care
He wasn't going to make it anywhere
All he was good at was getting high
Now he's gone and no one's asking why

His skin was as hard as a memory
He kept then in a bottle of pills he got free
No one even knows his name
Bud or Buster , it was all the same

No one even knows his name
They put him in a black bag that's the shame
He'll never be around again
And no one really cares

October 20, 2014   8:40a.m.

On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did.  Why?

Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!

But that is the core of the HP family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, and the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.

One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.

We will keep trying.

Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014

Outside of poetry
I would still be living a life
lightened and carefree
merrily chatting with wife.

I would let a poem rise in my head
throw to wind and see it dead
return to sky all breath of pain
watch them fall as joyous rain.

I would darken the screen let it sleep
burn the poems with none to keep
retire to the nook not been for long
brush up the web on a dusty song.

To be away from poetry I would strive
sail on the river go on long drive
snuggle tighter to a fathomless space
outside of poetry discover happiness.

it loomed like a ghost in the falling day.

an hour past the town on the way
the old man's eyes bore surprise

i wouldn't advise it, sir, not wise
waking them up is no sport

they who're sleeping in the dead men's fort.

All along i've been a phasmophobic
they ceased never to rule my head
lurking in nooks and under my bed.

it sounds nice to talk about spirits and souls
but at nights when hollows of burning coals
mistily appear and not in a dream
choke me out of scream
to that terror i fall an abject slave.

but my companion on that dusk was brave
looking at those eerily towering spires
he said let's try meeting a few vampires.

there was no door opening with a creak
but inside was a musty dark hole
where daylight made a quick retreat
as if to let the dead peacefully stroll.

we climbed up stairs strewn with dry leaves
amid sensing a storm brewing on the wing
for the awakened dead in anger seethes
to have their rest broken by the living.

soon swept us a gale of the squeaking dead
driving us out of that well occupied well
surely startled by the intruders' raid
the winged vampires were fleeing like hell.

over death we ponder too much
or none at all
but not upon the landmark most difficult to touch

living life well.

am i living my life well?

no, money can't help achieve
nor a good career of success

you know it too well not to believe
they do any better than robbing happiness.

then is it a nice wife and a loving family
kids to hug, comfort you generously?

no, not really, they still aren't enough to ensure
fullness of life as may only briefly endure.

then what is it that makes life lived well

a good sleep to tide the night
a roof over to dwell?

doing just what you like or minding the other's wish
let your desires run wild or hold them under leash?

to me it's a mystery getting answer to which I fail
the parameters of a life, having lived thoroughly well.

but over time I've realized, deep in, its echoes ring,

living life well has a lot to do
with being contented with smallest thing.

I thought I forgot you
I thought I long had you buried
Deep in my memory.
I thought you could no longer haunt me
Like you used to do so often.
I thought I got over you
Until your eyes met mine today,
Once or twice at most and that was about it.

I couldn't look at you,
I couldn't look at you without bursting into tears,
So I burst into laughter instead.
And I suppose that you saw through my fake act.
Anyway...

You were there in your corner,
There in your pedestal,
There in your elegance
Drawing something dangerously beautiful
And you were beautifully dangerous.
And I,
I could only watch you from a distance
And learn to admire you
Without touching you,
Without kissing you,
Or ******* you.

We exchanged a conversation
About random things
You know, like
How it took me about an hour
To take a proper picture of the cat you gave me,
How it tragically died,
How I didn't cry when it died...
But I actually did cry when it died...

You looked all right, seriously.
There in your peaceful world
That I no longer was part of.
There in your artistic mind,
There in your capacity to forget,
There in your tendency to break promises,
There in the awful effect you always have on me.

So you said goodbye
Because you had something to go back to.
I said goodbye
Even though I had nothing to go back to.

We parted ways once again,
Me with your drawing pencil in my bag
And you, you my dear, with a piece of me
Inside your pocket.

I remember you once said forever, but you only lied.
I went home,
I went home and cried.


-- Eleanor

~

magnetized, i stand,
muse of far off lands,
as for nourishment i reach,
these remind of thee;
reflections each are we,
soldiers all... sailors,
tossed about on stormy sea,
thirsty souls in paper boats,
as, in need of simple hope
each the other read,
you... my poetic anchor be;
as another’s soil i dream;
like magnets on my fridge
your words on page, my bridge
doorway to the heart of thee.

~

*post script.

to my poet friends, both known
and unknown with most un-met... yet,
this rambling spilled
as i reached this morning for
nourishment from my refrigerator
after reading your many wonderful
and uplifting writes.  
my new profile pic
helps to tell the story.

wishing you peace
on this Memorial Day weekend...
may those lost to thee,
ever rest in peace!

(Memorial Day- a designated day
in the US for remembrance
of those beloved souls
whom we lost too soon.)

love to you...
each and every one,
old friends and new!

The silence you sing
softens my soul
let's me whisper
what a fool I been
I see the soft moons
the flowers so blue
holding my heart
as merriment so new
journeys reach around my heart
hauntingly holding my spirit grace
love comes and softens
the laughter brings
the singing doth spent
oh the ocean air
feels so good
kisses my blessings
one more time
the eternal singing
that softens my soul.
I was saved for this day
On this merriment way
Your singing hills doth bring,
so new...

by: Debbie Brooks 2014